


Realizations

by scholarlydragon



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scholarlydragon/pseuds/scholarlydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The realizations of one person can touch off the most extraordinary of events. 3 chapters, different POV for each. My attempt at loving character studies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bedside Manners (Joyce)

**Author's Note:**

> Setting- Season 4
> 
> Rating- PG
> 
> Author Note- This came to me as a simple sentence and a notion: “Watchers are well named.” and the idea of Giles being helpless to prevent some calamity to Buffy. I started pondering who the POV for it might be and settled on Joyce as I had never written for her before and I was curious how it might turn out. I started this in 3rd person-past and it quickly became apparent that it was not right. I switched to 1st person-present tense and the words just flowed. It was amazing. As usual, I'm taking a little artistic license and pretending that, while the events of “Band Candy” happened, Giles and Joyce did not have sex. Personal preference.
> 
> Disclaimer- Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, et al own these wonderful characters and I am grateful that I am allowed to play in their sandbox.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joyce Summers has little reason to like Rupert Giles. The fact that her daughter is in a hospital bed isn't helping anything.

Bedside Manners (Joyce)

 

It occurs to me that Watchers are well named. He stares out into the street, unable or unwilling to look at the pale form on the hospital bed. His fist rests against the window frame, clenched tight. White knuckled. Staring out into the night like some motionless gargoyle. He still smells of smoke and blood and brick dust and a thousand other, subtle, unnameable things that make my stomach roil. The same things my daughter had smelled of when I first saw her, lying so pale, in this bed. He watches the night now and earlier in the evening, he watched her nearly die. A hundred times-more-he has _watched_ my daughter face her death.

My daughter... normally so full of life, so unrelentingly strong, lying motionless, surrounded by tubes and machines and it is his fault that she is there. His fault that any of this happens. And he won't even look at her.

I almost itch to throw him out of this room. To strike him. To fist my hands into his shirt and _shake_ him. Force him to turn and look at what his interference has brought to our lives, to look at that bed and what it holds. To demand to know what right he has to any of this, what right he has to _watch_ as she nearly dies.

Anger rises in my throat. Resentment for all that he represents. Watcher. Interferer. Nuisance. _Interloper_. Memories of him at my doorstep, collecting my daughter for a night of patrolling. Memories of her skipping out the door, carelessly calling back that she was going out to meet him and she'd be back later. And later... returning with blood on her face and in her clothes. Caked with dust that makes my skin crawl to touch it. The look on her face, through the blood and grime, that says that against all logic and sense she loves this life of hunting. That she is happy.

That she can enjoy this is one of the things that most frightens me.

I chide myself, a little unwillingly. I cannot place the blame entirely at his feet. My daughter is-the charitable and entirely insufficient word would be “stubborn”. Had been so even as a small child. She has always been the one to find her own path, following where her instincts led. Inevitably finding the most difficult, though ultimately correct, course of action. And now that stubborn child has grown into an equally stubborn adult.

I cannot even blame him for her calling, her destiny. Even though my daughter's double life has been going on for far longer than I've been fully aware of it, I remember the sequence and timing of odd events and I know that he appeared long after they began. If the Watchers are well named, then so too are the Slayers. Without him, she would be taking on college and demons alone.

I am frightened more by this idea than by the thought that she enjoys her work.

I want so very badly to blame him for all of this but I know I cannot truthfully do so. The anger drains away, leaving only weariness in its wake. My enemy is not this man staring out into the night, this man whose troubled eyes I can see reflected in the window pane, behind the glint of his glasses. My enemy, the force that has wrested my daughter from any semblance of a normal life, that places her in harm's way on a nightly basis, is at best the same creatures that she fights. At worst, it is the caprice of fate. Regardless, it is nothing I am capable of combating.

I study the lines of his back as he stands at the window, muscles in his shoulders tense under the fabric of his shirt. I remember the way her friends left, reluctant but accepting that it was not their place to remain. He had stayed, his stony gaze defiant, almost daring anyone to try and make him go. As though he would shatter if he did. As though being forced to do anything but remain in this room would destroy him.

I think on his steadfast refusal to look at the bed. Didn't I have the same temptation? Haven't I so many times? The impulse to ignore truth in the desperate, insane hope that if I did not look directly that it wouldn't, couldn't be true? In this as well, I cannot be angry at him.

I think of all the times my daughter has talked of this man to me. I know that she cares deeply for him as she does for all those she has claimed as her own. I know that, should anything happen to me, she will be well looked after. Not left alone. It is said that friends are the family you choose and my daughter has chosen well. She speaks differently, however, of her Watcher than she does of the others. She loves all those that belong to her with a heedless joy but there is a special depth of feeling reserved for him.

I have known for some time that there is a bond between them, a link borne not of coincidence or mere shared interest. But now as I study him, examining the tension in his limbs and the desolation in his face, turned to the window where he thinks he cannot be observed, I understand why he will not, cannot, look at her so pale and broken on the bed. I understand the further truth.

He loves her.

More than the paternal, more than as a guardian. This man loves my daughter with all the devotion of the old stories. The sort of love that means he would die for her.

I find myself wondering if he realizes.

It should probably anger me. The knowledge that a man my own age harbors any sort of romantic inclinations toward my daughter, knowingly or otherwise, should disturb me. I should be furious. But there is no anger, no fury, no righteous indignation. Perhaps there would have been in another life, another place and time. Instead, here and now, in this life with the danger that surrounds us on a daily basis, there is weary relief that another cares for my daughter so deeply. There is gratitude that, in spite of the vagaries of fate, there is a chance for her to have even a hint of a normal life after all. Unusual certainly, but what about my daughter has ever been anything but?

“You love her.”

My voice, though I nearly whisper, is almost too loud in this room, silent for so many hours but for the beeping of the monitors. He startles and turns toward me, away from the window, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses. There are stitches in his forehead and a smear of dried blood on his temple. I can't help but wonder if it's hers. He gazes at me wordlessly.

I rise from my chair and move closer to him, stopping on the other side of the window. He holds himself very still, as though unsure of my intentions, green eyes watching carefully. I don't blame him. “You love her, don't you? I don't mean simply caring about her. She has friends for that. You really love her.”

He hesitates for a moment before he speaks. “Yes.” His voice is hoarse. Choked. “Yes, I love her. She is everything to me.” I look over at the bed, at the still form that I wish desperately would spring to its customary light and life. Everything to him. As she is to me. And in that moment, the last wisps of uncertainty in my heart settle. I know what I have to do and it is easy.

“I don't like you.” I can see him flinch out of the corner of my eye and there is no satisfaction in seeing it as there once might have been. He draws breath as though to speak but I forge ahead. “You as good as take my daughter away from me at all hours of the day and night. You take my daughter and you go into danger.” Another flinch. “But you also give her joy. Happiness like I haven't seen from her in far too long. Happiness like no one else gives her, not even her other friends. She loves you. I can't deny that. And for that reason alone, I want to like you better.” I look back at him where he is still gazing at me with those unreadable eyes. “You are as much a part of her life as I am and, as much as I don't like the vampire slaying, I have to admit that she'd be out there doing it even if she had never met you. And I'm grateful for the fact that you are there to help her.”

He scoffs then, softly, a desolate sound, and turns back to the window, but not before I can see the mask has cracked and his eyes hold pain so sharp my breath catches in my throat. “Bloody great help I was tonight.” It is painfully clear, now, that I never needed to hate this man for what happens to my daughter on his watch. He hates himself enough for the both of us and more. He paces away, weary sadness in every line of his tall frame and slumps into one of the chairs on the far side of the bed. Broken. Defeated. “I wasn't fast enough.” His voice matches his posture, the tone of a man who has faced the loss of that which he cherishes most, what he most dreads to lose. “Never bloody fast enough.”

“And what if you hadn't been there at all?” He flinches violently and I regret my carelessly chosen words. His pain tears at me in a way I would never have expected before tonight. I am surprised to find that I am almost desperate to soothe the ache and the fears I can sense in his soul. I cross the room again and sink into the other chair, twisted slightly to face him. “From what I understand, you were the one who got her out. No one else was there with her.” The knowledge of what would have happened had he not been there nearly chokes me but I push it back. The worst didn't happen. My daughter still lives because of this man. Many times over. How many times has he saved her? How often have they saved each other? I will never know the total count and I don't want to. Even without his love for her and hers for him, that would be enough. I reach out and place my hand gently on his forearm as it rests on the arm of his chair. The fabric of his dress shirt is singed and sooty, stiff and dirty with unknowable things. He jerks at my touch but doesn't move away. “She still lives. She is there in that bed, breathing, because of you. You brought her out. You brought her here. You saved what matters most in the world to the both of us.” I pause for a moment. “Have you ever told her?”

He shakes his head mutely. He looks so terribly tired. I wonder, briefly, what it will do to this man if we lose her. It is difficult enough, painful enough, to imagine what it might be like for me, a sorrow so deep even the idea of it sears the soul. But looking into his haunted eyes, something in me quails at the idea of grief as immense as what will engulf him then.

“If-” My voice cracks and I falter. _No_. I try again, pouring every ounce of conviction I possess into my words, desperate to shore him up with reassurance. “ _When_ she wakes, tell her. Tell her the truth of how you feel. There are no guarantees in life, especially not in the work the two of you are called to do. Tell her. Don't waste any more time.”

He leans forward slightly and brushes her pale fingers where they lie on the worn hospital blanket with his own. A gentle touch, then firmer as he lifts and cradles her hand in his own. “Thank you.” His voice is choked with too much emotion. “Thank you for this.”

My response is simple. “Thank you for my daughter.” There is nothing else to say.

We wait with desperate hope, my hand on his arm, his hand on hers, for what the morning will bring.


	2. Awakening (Buffy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy wakes up the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note- As soon as I started “Bedside Manners”, I knew that I wouldn't be able to leave it at that.

Awakening (Buffy)

 

I surface slowly, my senses muddled. I am in a bed which is not my own, that much is clear. Little else is. Somewhere nearby, there is a steady beeping and it reminds me more than anything else of a metronome, keeping time steadily toward someone's song. The idea pleases me though I don't understand why. It begins to lull me back to sleep but memory nags. I know I cannot go back to sleep until I remember. There is something I must know, something I must discover before I can rest again. I keep my eyes closed, struggling to remember, pushing away the fog of exhaustion. Hazy images return to me. There had been smoke. Fire. A vile dust settling out of the air onto the floor, the remains of my enemies. And a sense of satisfaction of a job well done before the dawning realization that I was in trouble. Fear. Pain. Then, rescue. He had come for me.

That is what I need to remember, what I need to know. I can remember nothing beyond his arms gathering me, lifting me up.

Is he safe?

I open my eyes slowly. The room is smudged by the first hints of dawn, slowly growing brighter. There is silence but for the ongoing metronome and the soft sound of twin snores. There, in the chairs to the side of the bed, the two people that mean more to me than any others. My mother is curled into her chair, knees drawn up and half under the arm rest, her head pillowed onto the cushioned seat back by one folded hand. Her brow is furrowed, and I am sorry that once again she has worried for me.

And in the other chair... My breath catches in my throat to see him here. Safe. He is leaning forward in his chair, head pillowed onto his folded arms on the side of the bed, his left hand gripping my right as though it is a lifeline. I can feel the ring on his smallest finger, the cold metal weight of it against my palm. His back rises and falls gently as he breathes.

There is a line of stitches on his forehead, a crimson smear of dry blood. His glasses, pushed askew by his arm, are smudged. He is rumpled, dirty, and hurt and he looks exhausted, even in sleep. But he is here. Safe. As am I. Relief floods through me at the knowledge that we have once again beaten the odds. I know that one day, he or I or both of us will not be so lucky, but I treasure each time the worst is averted, every day that I can thump fate on the nose. Each day that I can know all those I care for are safe, especially him, makes all that I do worth it.

I wonder how badly I am injured and shift a little. Which experiment I regret immediately as I suck in a breath and wince, stifling a whimper. I am grateful that the head of the hospital bed is already raised so I do not have to do anything to sit up. I'm not sure I could manage it otherwise. I have certainly had worse but I can tell it will take some time before I'm completely better. Slayer healing can only do so much.

The sound of my whimper brings his head up with a jerk and he blinks in disoriented confusion. A grimace of pain crosses his face at the sudden movement and he raises the hand not holding mine to back of his neck. He rubs slowly at the doubtlessly knotted muscles, then pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh and closed eyes. I smile at the sight of his familiar mannerisms, though the movement hurts my face. Small comforts, are always reassuring in the aftermath of trauma. As he replaces the glasses onto his face and blinks through the smudged lenses, I say the first thing that comes to mind, with a gentle squeeze of the hand that still holds mine.

“You're safe.”

I blink in surprise. The voice sounds nothing like mine, hoarse and gravelled, but the reaction it spurs in him is electric. He startles, head whipping up to stare at my face, eyes wide.

“You-you're awake.” His voice sounds as little like his normal tones as my own did but it is full of disbelieving joy and my heart clenches in my chest. As much as I worry for him, he worries for me. He always has. I smile at him and squeeze his hand again in reassurance. My mother stirs in her chair and she rushes to the other side of the bed, a choked sob spilling from her lips. She embraces me with the practiced caution of someone accustomed to their loved ones being injured. My heart goes out to her and I regret all I have put her, put both of them, through over the years. I can do nothing else, such is the curse of my gifts, but I am sorry nonetheless.

She pulls back slightly and looks at me, searchingly. I do my best to smile reassuringly. “I'm ok, Mom. Give me some time to heal and I'll be just fine.” She smiles, enormous relief lighting her face, and looks over at him with a warm smile. She grips his shoulder with one hand warmly, reassuringly, as a look passes between the two of them, weighty with significance. Then she moves swiftly to the door and is gone.

I frown in confusion. While there has never been open animosity between the two of them there has also never been much in the way of understanding. She has resented him too much for that. Or so I had thought. Clearly something has changed but I am baffled as to what.

“Your mother,” he murmurs, before I can question this new turn of events aloud, “is a wonderful woman. She-she and I talked last night. A-about you and-and about m-me.” He is staring down at our hands on the bed, still linked, and so he cannot see my smile. He hasn't truly stuttered with me in years and I am amused in spite of my confusion. I had forgotten how much I had missed it, this endearingly odd trait in this strangely contradictory man. A man who faces down the worst things the Hellmouth spits out with a sneer but stammers himself to incoherency when he's uncomfortable in mundane conversation. “I-I'm not s-sure how to s-say this.” I squeeze his hand again, reassuringly.

“Just say it.” I am confused and uncertain as to where he is going in this but I am willing to be patient and allow him to get there. He looks up and I can't read his face; there is a welter of emotion there and I can't sort it out. I give him a smile. “It's ok.”

He gives me his own shy, quick smile and looks down at our linked hands again. “I-I love you. More than for the fact that-that you are the Slayer and more than that I am y-your Watcher. For these things I re-respect you. I love you f-for your spirit and your fire and for your de-devotion to that which you hold dear.” I can only stare at him, disbelief mounting. He loves me? That he cares, for all of us, is clear in his every action. But love?

Yes, love.

Haven't I always known he cared, from the beginning? And, after all we have been through together, it only makes sense that such emotion could turn deeper. Hasn't my own? If I am honest with myself, and I must be in the face of a confession such as this, my own feelings toward him deepened long ago. I never suspected, though, that they could be returned and so I ignored them, choosing instead to treasure what we had, our bond forged in destiny and war.

His gaze steals up to mine for an instant, then darts away again. His apprehension in the face of my silence is clear. “I-I told your mother this last night. More specifically, she-she figured it out on her own and I confirmed it. She told me not to w-waste any more time and to tell you how I felt when you woke. I will-understand if you do not feel the same. Th-there is, after all, a great-great deal b-between us. Not least, our re-respective ages. I only-I could not bear the idea of something happening and you never-never knowing...”

He falls silent and looks up at me then, waiting for my response, his green eyes searching. I wonder briefly at his courage when, a breath ago, he was tormented by his stammering shyness but then that is what this man does. He is shy with emotion, especially his own, but when it comes time for action, there is no hesitation in him. This man, my Watcher, does what must be done, regardless of circumstances. Having stammered his way through baring his soul to me, he looks up at me steadily with his heart in his eyes, mingled hope and fear such as I've never seen in anyone, and I can't keep him in suspense. Even if I wanted to.

“I love you,” I murmur and nearly cry at his look of sheer wondering joy.

He rises from his chair and kisses me with his hands cradling my face. It is a gentle, chaste kiss, respectful of my injuries and his own and our location and he smells of smoke and blood, and it is perfect. He draws back slightly and the quiet joy in his green eyes takes my breath. He rests his forehead against my own, his hands cupping my cheeks, his breath warm on my face. My heart is singing within me and I can't stand the idea of him retreating back to his chair, however close to the bed it might be. “Would you hold me?”

He makes a pleased noise and sits on the edge of the bed. I shift over with a grunt of pain, making room for him. He is solicitous, worried, as he slips in next to me, settling back against the raised head of the bed, but I wave off his concern with a reassuring smile. I have had worse. He has brought me back from worse. I will mend. And in the meantime, I have him here with me.

His care as he climbs into the bed proclaims his own injuries and I scold him quietly for sleeping sitting in a chair. For still wearing the same dirty, stained clothing. I don't mind, but he cannot possibly have been comfortable. He makes a dismissive noise as he settles. He holds out his arms and I take the invitation gladly, snuggling into his chest. His left arm wraps my shoulders and down my side. His right hand rests on his middle. I can feel him press a kiss and a smile onto the top of my head. “There was no way I was leaving until I knew you would be all right.” His voice is a deep rumble against my cheek. “Until I had a chance to tell you.”

“And now that you have?” I tease him gently.

“For now, I wish only to hold you and convince myself that I am not still asleep.”

I look at his long legs stretched out along the bed, beside mine. He is on top of the blanket while I am under it, but I don't mind. There will be time enough for more intimacy, for more closeness, later. For now, the knowledge that I am loved so deeply, that I love him, and his sheer presence next to me is enough. I realize suddenly that his arm around my shoulders is trembling. When he whispers, his voice trembles as well. “I-I hadn't really thought...” I reach up and take his right hand.

“Hadn't thought I could feel the same?”

I can feel his nod and shaky exhalation against my hair. “How can I not?” I asked quietly, raising my head to look at him. “You hold my heart.”

The look on his worn face is almost indescribable, like a man sentenced to death being granted freedom, like a starving man presented with a feast. My heart aches for him and I resolve to do everything within my power to convince him that this is real, that he is truly loved. I lean up the short distance and kiss him again. When I pull back once more, I whisper, “I love you, my Watcher.”

I can see the joy in his eyes and he smiles. He whispers, “My Slayer.”

I settle back into the bed and he holds me tightly.

His hands trace meaningless patterns on my forearm and shoulder and I doze, held warm in his arms, only to wake with a start as my mother comes back into the room. She pauses, gazing at us silently. I tense instinctively despite all that he said about what they discussed during the night and he holds me still, reassuring. She searches our faces and I am a little surprised to see her blink back a tear. “I never thought to see either of you so content,” she says quietly.

I am touched by her reaction and acceptance but uncertainty still pulls at me.

“You're really all right with it?”

She nods. “I really am. The most important thing in the world to me is that you are happy. Nothing else matters.” To which I don't know what to say, but I look at her smile and I know that there is nothing else that needs to be said.

When the others come in once visiting hours start, blinking in surprise at the sight of him in my bed, he only tightens his hand in mine and, when I look up at him, I can see his comfortable grin.


	3. Sword and Shield (Giles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles reflects on what has come before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting- AU future
> 
> Author Note- Conclusion to what was begun in “Beside Manners”

Sword and Shield (Giles)

 

I cannot say what I feel when I look at her for, in truth, there is no one thing. There never has been, from the first moment we met. Our lives together have been a mosaic of camaraderie, irritation, danger, exhilaration, laughter, and love.

From the moment we met when she walked into the library all unknowing, to this day when we stand together before our friends and family as one, I have loved her fiercely. First, with a protective streak that was well beyond that demanded of me by my oath as a Watcher to protect the Slayer. Then, as she grew and matured into her power and became a competent adult, I found that I loved her for herself.

Now, as I once more make vows to her, I find I am overwhelmed by the depth and breadth of what I feel for this woman. The Slayer.

My Slayer.

I gaze down at her, nearly struck dumb. I am not convinced that I do not dream; the entire day has possessed an aura of unreality. If I do dream, however, I wish to never wake again.

I am grateful that my habitual nervous stutter seems to be absent today. I had expected to be stammering like a fool by this point in the ceremony. Perhaps it is the look in her eyes that lends steadiness to my trembling hands and strength to my voice.

There is always a bond between Slayers and Watchers. It cannot help but form between two people facing such perils together.

My hands have wiped blood, sweat and tears from her face as hers have from mine. We have fought alongside each other, have seen each other in the depths of despair and at the heights of joy, in rage and laughter, and everything in between. We have seen each other at the worst and the best we each have to offer.

The timeworn vows to have and hold and cherish seem almost trivial in comparison to what already binds us.

She is more than I, mere human that I am. More than I could ever hope to be. I lack her strength and power. It is always so with Slayers and their Watchers. They are the gifted, the powerful. It is they who stand on the front lines of the battles against the darkness.

It is the destiny of the Slayer to fight, to make war against the evils that plague us, a bright gleaming sword illuminating the crushing dark. The place of a Watcher is not to fight but to hone the bright blade, to direct the fury.

To be certain, we do fight. It is difficult to avoid when one associates with a destined demon hunter. I, myself, am no laggard when it comes to waging war. But that is not the true calling of a Watcher. Ours is to train and pace, direct and research, to provide knowledge and counsel and, always too soon, to mourn.

I will lose her one day. There is no question. Such risk of loss is the nature of all relationships worth having but it is rather more poignant in our case. She has already outlived most that have come before her and, too often, I cannot escape the idea that we are living on borrowed time.

I resolutely push such thoughts away. I cannot change what might come. Just as I cannot change either of our callings, our destinies. Nor, in the end, would I wish to. What we do, what she stands for, is too important.

All I, all any of us can do, is meet our destinies with grace and dignity and fight as hard as we can for one more day until we can fight no more. Until then all that I am is hers. It has always been so, even in the beginning. From the moment I swore the oath to her, even before I knew her name. From the moment I was told that there was a new Slayer and I was to be her Watcher.

She is a sword and I am a shield, standing together against the forces of darkness, neither of us complete without the other.

And, as I watch her as we turn to face our assembled loved ones, a small smile playing on her lips and such love in her eyes that it takes my breath, I know that I can face anything.


End file.
